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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577130">guilty feet have got no rhythm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o'>Yuki1014o</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Centricide (Webseries)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Commie's in denial and blue man's oblivious, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Pre-Slash, the auths being oppression buddies™, this isn't as angsty as the title implies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:55:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,398</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28577130</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuki1014o/pseuds/Yuki1014o</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the anarchists leave, the authoritarians spend a night alone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Communist/White Identitarian | Nazi (Centricide), authunity</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>guilty feet have got no rhythm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Don't question the title, I just like the line, and some parts of the song kinda apply to this fic but?? Definitely not all. So uh. </p><p>And, of course, I don't support the beliefs put forward here</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hey,” Nazi says, and Commie pauses on his to the stairs. Tilts his head. The dishes are done, dinner has been cleared—what else is there? Nazi pauses, glances at the alcohol cabinet. “Stay?”</p><p>“It’s late,” Commie says, “I have date with theory.”</p><p>Nazi rolls his eyes. “It’s a book, Commie. Live a little.” </p><p>In truth, Commie just doesn’t...isn’t sure the purpose of staying. Historically, he and Nazi have never gotten along, and Commie cannot say his feelings aren't mixed. Still, they have gotten closer ever since Ancom left. Then Ancap, like the filthy immoral spineless <em>coward</em> he is, left only a couple of days ago, and—well.</p><p>Commie is feeling melancholic. He is, perhaps fundamentally, a person who enjoys company. Not as blatantly extroverted as Ancom or Ancap, but he <em>likes people</em>. He enjoys their presence in a quiet kind of way. Likes going out of his way to help them, likes listening to them talk and watching them go around their tasks. So being alone in the house without the loudest of their party is just a little—</p><p>“Sure,” he says, turning around and settling onto the living room couch. “So?”</p><p>Nazi doesn’t smile, but his colors do something jumpy around the edges. The kitchen connects with an open plan into the living room. “Just a drink,” he says, and digs into the cabinet and brings out a wine bottle and two glasses. Comes over and sets them onto the coffee table.</p><p>Commie eyes the red wine pouring smoothly into each glass.</p><p>“I don’t even drink wine.” It’s—too bourgeoisie, somehow. Feels arrogant and piggish. And besides, it’s an expensive unhealthy luxury product.</p><p>“Get some class.”</p><p>“I don’t want class.”</p><p>“Ugh,” Nazi wrinkles his nose. “Whatever. Are you going to drink, yes or no?”</p><p>Commie eyes the wine, glinting ruby beneath the warm and toasted lamplight. It’s a stark color against the white-blue of Nazi’s skin. He sighs. “How do we toast to?”</p><p>“What to toast to...” Nazi holds out the glass, makes a thoughtful sound, then smirks a little. “Fuck liberals?”</p><p>Commie—hesitates. Thinks of his soldiers dead and his people dead and every hateful, spiteful, utterly <em>wrong</em> thing the other ideology has ever spouted. Thinks of what Ancom would think, if qui saw him like this, then bites his cheek because it doesn’t <em>matter</em>. Ancom left. Since when has Commie ever given stock to the opinions of <em>deserters</em><em>?</em></p><p>He takes it, fingers brushing up against Nazi’s cold skin, and the clink of their glasses rings out like a bad omen.</p><p>“Da,” he agrees, “to fucking liberals.”</p><p>Nazi snickers, then grimaces. “I know what you meant, but never phrase it like that again.”</p><p>Commie huffs a laugh. “Prude.”</p><p>“Just decency.”</p><p>He hums at that. Doesn’t agree, but this is the type of thing Ancom would bicker about, not him. He sips from the glass. It’s cloyingly sweet. Nazi nudges a little closer to him on the couch. He eyes the fascist. In the lamplight, Nazi’s hair looks less platinum and more honey.</p><p>Damn it.</p><p>What even is this? This bizarre kind of—solidarity? Unity? Cooperation? When Commie joined the centricide he expected to...simply tolerate his fellow extremists. He and Ancom were already in steady contact with each other, but the <em>other two?</em></p><p>He did not expect Nazi to endear himself to him. Commie isn’t—isn’t even sure if it was intentional. But here they are, lightly brushing legs on the couch, drinking together in the depth of night, and Commie finds himself hyper fixating on the rhythm off Nazi’s breath. As if that’s important.</p><p>He sighs. Swishes the wine around in his glass lightly. Nazi is already pouring himself a second one. “So we’re doing this.”</p><p>Nazi furrows his brows. Looks at him questioningly. “This?”</p><p>Commie takes the rest of his glass down in one swallow. Places his glass down on the coffee table, makes a somewhat vague motion. “This...you know. Collaboration, like team. Closeness.”</p><p>“Oh,” Nazi says, eyeing him with something like wariness. “I suppose we are.”</p><p>God.</p><p>They’re really doing this. They tried something similar, back before WWII. Nazi was young, then, was molten and unknown and just barely coming into his colors. And Commie, who was older, who emerged almost half a century earlier, saw that newly branded iron will and thought: <em>oh, that </em><em>could be dangerous</em>.</p><p>(It was very dangerous.)</p><p>(Commie really should have trusted the other ideology less.)</p><p>“You betrayed me last time,” Commie says. “How will you not do same now? I trusted that you wouldn’t break our pact last time, and it turned out terribly.”</p><p>A beat. The other is silent. His boot taps quietly against the wooden flooring.</p><p>A quiet, dry huff. Nazi smirks humorlessly. “You forget it ended worse for me.”</p><p>“And good for that,” Commie says, then closes his eyes, leans into the couch backing. Opens them. “Lesson learned, you mean?”</p><p>Nazi hums, sips more wine. “Sure.”</p><p>“You’re great at lying.”</p><p>Nazi glances at him, frowns a bit, expression a little pinched. “I’m not lying...does it seems like I am?”</p><p>Does he? No. Not really. When Nazi lies, he goes all sanded and unnatural. He presses his heels into the ground and smiles in that faux-friendly way. His hands relax, and smooths down the wrinkles of his uniform. He’ll tell you he cares, and talk almost exclusively in tangents, and by the end of it, you won’t know what the original subject was, you’ll just know you trust him.</p><p>Commie sighs. “You’re much like spider.”</p><p>Nazi squints at him. “...Excuse me?”</p><p>“You know,” Commie vaguely gestures at the other, “spinning web. Waiting for people to catch, then wrapping them up in silk. Saying <em>stay</em>, and biting them in end. Venomously.”</p><p>“I’m...not sure your point.” Nazi says, now pouring himself a third glass. There’s a crawling flush over his skin. For once, Commie is the sober one—if only because wine isn’t his taste. “Do you even have a point?”</p><p>“I’m saying that you’re charming.”</p><p>“Oh...thanks.” Nazi leans closer to him. “I try to be.”</p><p>Commie sighs quietly. “I wish you’d put it to better use.”</p><p>“Hah.”</p><p>“You see same issues as I,” Commie says, “you—appropriate my arguments. See bad employment and conditions and hard advancement and put it on wrong people.”</p><p>Nazi groans a little, doesn’t lift himself off Commie’s side. “Now now...please. Lets not focus on differences.”</p><p>Commie hums. It...admittedly probably isn’t the time. “Maybe.”</p><p>“Just focus on killing libs and eradicating enemies, yeah?”</p><p>“Capitalist pigs.”</p><p>Nazi nods, tries to keep his face straight, but an unsteady kind of smile forces up anyway. “Yep. <em>Capitalists</em>.”</p><p>“Da,” Commie says, “<em>Capitalists</em>. With no parentheses.”</p><p>“Whatever.” Nazi drinks down the rest of his glass, sets it down, doesn't reach for another. He looks already sluggish. What a lightweight. “Just so long as they’re gone. Lets steamroll the world together. Tread them all.”</p><p>“Tread them all,” Commie agrees, then laughs a little. “At this rate we’ll end up committing war crime. Or couple. Many.”</p><p>Nazi’s eyes glint with humor. “It isn’t a human rights violation if they don’t have rights.”</p><p>Commie snickers despite himself, even though it was barely a joke, much less a funny one. “Just so long as we mean kulaks.”</p><p>“Yep,” Nazi says, leaning in even closer, pressing up against Commie’s side, clearly tipsy. “Definitely. Kulaks.”</p><p>Commie brushes his fingers through Nazi’s hair. “I’ll bring you around eventually.”</p><p>“Not tonight,” the other mutters, sounding drowsy. His ice-blue eyes are half lidded and closing.</p><p>“Perhaps not tonight,” Commie concedes, letting Nazi melt into his side, into his chest. The flush is more apparent now, reaching up to the other ideology’s ears. For all Nazi likes to proclaim the superiority of his own skin, it blushes easily. He blushes easily.</p><p>Something harsh and possessive creeps on the edges of Commie’s mind. <em>Wanting</em>. It’s nothing new. When Commie looks at vulnerable people he <em>wants</em> them. Wants to help them, possess them, wants to love them and be loved in return. Nazi is not vulnerable. He can take care of himself. Just, like this, he looks...well.</p><p>He nudges the other ideology gently. “Are you going to sleep like this?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Ah.” Commie leans back. Alright. They’re staying here, then. It isn’t uncomfortable. “Goodnight, then.”</p><p>“Mhmm.”</p><p>It’s nothing new, Commie assures himself, running fingers through Nazi’s hair. It’s nothing different.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>dude I don’t know. This infested my brain. I was trying to get an atmosphere. I also hope this wasn't <i>too</i> heavy feeling. It was pretty short, but I hope you enjoyed?</p><p>Per usual, constructive criticism is welcome, and comments are very appreciated. My validation well runs dry easily.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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